Chapter 8 Heart Racing
Heart Racing
Dominic’s heart pounded so hard that he felt sick.
He snuck a surreptitious glance. Juliette was chatting with her brother; her dark hair was in a knot, and her wine-colored dress clung to her body in a way that ought to be illegal.
She looked exactly like he remembered, only harder somehow.
A diamond forged under pressure. Dominic swallowed.
Stop fucking staring, he told himself sternly.
His body wouldn’t listen.
“Fucking hell,” Anthony muttered. “Is that the new girl?”
He was staring at Juliette with open appreciation, and Dominic stiffened. And, like the raging hypocrite he was, he dragged his gaze away.
“She has a name.”
“Sod that.” Anthony’s eyes hadn’t left Juliette. “Nobody told me how fit she was. Do you know if she’s single?”
Dominic looked at a bucket of wooden swords; it took an irrational amount of self-control not to hit Anthony over the head with one. “She’s a colleague. Show some respect.”
Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “You know her.”
Dominic shrugged. “A little.”
“Introduce me.”
Dominic almost laughed. Yeah. Not fucking likely. “I hardly know her.”
Anthony’s expression was irritatingly smug. “Bet you’d like to, though.” His posture changed. “She’s coming this way.”
Shit.
It was Juliette’s scent that struck him first: vanilla and something flowery, mixing with the strawberry ChapStick that she wore.
It took him back to Parisian streets, to bundling into smoke-filled art galleries to shelter from silty rain.
Her eyes were the exact shade of violet-blue that haunted Dominic’s dreams, like wildflowers blooming in spring, although they lacked the warmth that he remembered.
“Hastings,” she said.
Dominic’s smile was easy. “Marchmont.”
A lump rose in his throat. She was wearing those same fucking pink cowboy boots she used to wear. As if nothing had changed.
Ranya—who wore a high-necked white dress—stepped forward. “Dominic. Juliette. I wanted to reintroduce the pair of you.” She turned. “Anthony? Could you be a dear and fetch me a drink?”
Anthony looked appalled, as if he’d never fetched a drink in his life.
Very likely he hadn’t. Dominic was suddenly aware of the cameras.
The whispers. It was an open secret that he never warmed to his teammates; The Prince of Racing, a newspaper had once written, is far from princely, although his aloof character is part of the handsome racer’s appeal.
He doesn’t make friends. Only allies. Liêm had framed the article alongside a plastic gold medal that he’d bought from a pound shop, which he’d inscribed with “Dominic Hastings’s Number One Ally Since 2010. ”
Yes.
Every reporter was circling hungrily, waiting for this introduction to go badly. But it was only Dominic who understood exactly how badly it might go.
He looked at Juliette, whose lips thinned.
Ranya looked expectantly at Anthony. “A glass of champagne?”
Anthony glanced at a reporter before offering a stiff smile. “Of course. I’ll be back in a moment.”
He slipped toward the bar. Cameras exploded in silver flashes, like the scales of some quick-darting fish, and Dominic couldn’t breathe.
“Stay here,” Ranya said in a low voice. “I’ll be back with some sponsors.”
She gave him a look that clearly said Don’t fuck this up or I’ll have your balls before starting into the crowd.
Dominic crossed his arms. Juliette was silhouetted against the glow of the pirate ship, the golden clips in her hair shining like morning stars.
She was devastatingly beautiful, and even though he’d known to expect it—knew it like the laws of physics and gravity and things that were objectively true—it still fucking leveled him.
“Your hair,” Dominic said finally, “is different.”
Juliette held out a hand. “And you look taller.” She smiled for the cameras. “Been stretching the truth again?”
Dominic took her hand. Her fingers were smaller than he recalled. “I suppose I deserve that.”
“Was this your idea?”
“What?”
She held his gaze. “Did you bully Ranya into hiring me?”
Dominic repressed the urge to snort. “Are you mad? A bulldozer couldn’t move Ranya.” Juliette kept looking, and he lowered his voice. “No. I had nothing to do with this. Trust me.” He hesitated. “I had no idea that you were going to be my teammate. I’d have never agreed to this otherwise.”
She dropped his hand. “I see.”
A camera flashed. Dominic had the urge to usher her away to a private corner, which was a terrible idea for many reasons. Namely, that he valued his fingers.
“Look,” Dominic said. “Let’s just be civil.”
“Civil,” Juliette repeated flatly.
He raised an eyebrow. “I assume you’re familiar with the term. Speaking politely, exchanging handshakes, not setting each other’s helmets on fire—”
“I’m amazed they found one big enough to fit your head.”
Dominic raised an eyebrow. She wanted to go there? Fine. He’d go there. “Don’t worry, love.” He gave a pointed look at his trousers. “They only had to make one thing in a larger size for me.”
Juliette’s smile was sweet. “The car insurance on your contract?”
Dominic startled himself by laughing. Fuck. He’d forgotten that she could be funny; that was so much worse than being reminded of how beautiful she was. Then Juliette leaned closer, and he was back in that art gallery, listening to her tear his heart into pieces. Any amusement vanished.
“How about this?” Juliette’s perfume tickled his face. “Don’t get in my way this season.”
His jaw tightened. “We’ll work well together. We always have.”
Juliette looked like a mechanic sizing up a broken car. “What about your…” She waved a hand at Dom’s torso area. “You know.”
He snatched a cucumber sandwich from a passing tray. “It’s working well, thanks. Much to the delight of women everywhere.”
Juliette’s mouth tightened. “I meant your wrist.”
She looked irritated. Good.
“Healed,” Dominic said shortly, popping the sandwich into his mouth, and he might have said more if Anthony sodding Sinclair hadn’t chosen that moment to appear with two glasses of champagne. He extended a glass to Juliette, who, to his irrational annoyance, accepted it with a smile.
“For you,” Anthony murmured. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. I’m—”
“Anthony Sinclair,” Juliette finished. “Two crashes, twelve wins, and twenty podiums last season. Not to mention world champion.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’ve not been living under a rock. I know who you are.”
Anthony blinked. His surprise would have been amusing, Dominic thought, if he wasn’t eyeing Juliette like a starving man surveying a chocolate cupcake. “I’m flattered you’ve been keeping tabs.”
Juliette took a sip. “I make a point of knowing my competition. Anyway, everyone knows who you are.” She nodded at the flashing cameras. “The Bad Boy of Racing.”
She said this last part ironically, but she wasn’t wrong, Dominic thought; that really was what the papers called Anthony.
He’d built a reputation as a roguish, devil-may-care scamp.
Unfortunately, that largely gave the dickhead license to say whatever he wanted and then pass it off as a cheeky comment.
And Sinclair milked that for everything it was worth.
Anthony waved a hand. “You shouldn’t believe what you read in the papers. All of it’s rubbish.”
Juliette raised an eyebrow. “So you didn’t smash up all your golf clubs after you lost a tournament last year?”
“No.”
“Or do cocaine with the pope?”
“Never happened.”
“Or temporarily marry an American girl in Vegas?”
“That one’s true,” Anthony acknowledged. “But she was Canadian. Not American.” He drained his champagne. “Thank fuck I was sober enough to get a prenup.”
To Dominic’s great irritation, Juliette looked amused. “So your reputation is only partially deserved. That’s what you’re saying?”
Anthony gave a toothy smile. “Why don’t I take you out this weekend and you can find out?”
“We should go find Ranya,” Dominic said curtly.
A pulse beat in his throat. If he had to stand here for much longer and watch Sinclair leer at Juliette’s cleavage every time her head was turned…it wasn’t going to end well. Yes, he was pissed off at her, but come on. That was basic human decency, right?
Anthony looked at Dominic as if he were a pebble at the bottom of his shoe. Juliette squared her shoulders. “Ranya said to wait here.”
“Come on,” Dominic said. “This will be faster.”
Juliette gave him a look. For a moment Dominic thought she might refuse, but then she gave Anthony a smile that felt like a loaded grenade. “Excuse us.” Cameras flashed. They’d made it three steps before Juliette spoke, her voice low and annoyed. “Care to explain what that was about?”
Dominic’s neck felt hot. “Stay away from Sinclair. He’s…” A self-important dickhead. “You don’t want him as a friend.”
“Why? Because he took your seat?”
“Because he’ll do anything to win.”
Juliette came to a stop. “So would every racer alive.”
Dominic exhaled. Honestly. This woman. “There are limits.” They were standing by the pirate ship, huddled beneath the gangplank. “There are things most drivers wouldn’t do.” Like endangering a fellow driver. Or bedding the competition.
Hypocrite, his brain purred.
Dominic ignored this. He’d become an expert at ignoring most of his thoughts.
The sweat-soaked nightmares, the lung-burning runs, the times when Juliette’s picture would pop up on social media…
He was a professional underthinker. An “I don’t care” savant.
Anyway, all he had to do was recall her parting words to him two years ago.
That usually did the trick.
Juliette’s blue eyes were shaded. “Why do you care?”
Dominic glanced at the throng of cameras. “Because we’re teammates.”
“Right,” Juliette said flatly. “Teammates.”
He mentally counted to ten. “I meant what I said before. We can be civil—”
“I don’t want to be civil,” Juliette said. “I don’t want to share protein shakes, or joke around, or act like we’re mates. I don’t want to be near you. I despise you.” Her eyes were the darkest part of the sea. “Is that clear enough for you?”
A sharp pain registered somewhere near his gut, although Dominic’s expression didn’t change. “Then what do you want?”
She raised her chin. “An apology.”
He could have laughed. Great. Same thing he wanted then. “Marchmont…”
“Go on,” Juliette prompted. “Apologize for what you did. Then I’ll be civil.”
“And you?” Dominic’s voice was tight. “Are you going to apologize?”
She crossed her arms. “For what?”
Oh, that was cute. “Come on. You know what.”
They observed each other. A pulse hammered in his throat. Damn it, he’d forgotten how good she was at getting under his skin. How did she do that? The flash of a red velvet jacket caught his eye; Anthony was moving in their direction, his eyes determined.
For fuck’s sake.
Dominic took her arm. “Come with me.”
Predictably, Juliette stiffened. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“We need to figure our shit out,” Dominic said. “Before the season starts. I’m not bringing any problems on track.”
Her eyes hardened. “So now I’m a problem?”
Dominic ground his teeth. Another thing he’d forgotten: how stubborn she could be. “Two minutes. That’s all I need.”
He didn’t realize his fingers were digging into Juliette’s wrist until she flinched. “Let go of me.”
She might as well have slapped him.
Dominic released her immediately. Juliette stumbled back, her eyes flying wide like a puppet cut from its strings.
Fuck. He lunged for her instinctively, only to discover that she’d already righted herself with preternatural driver’s reflexes.
And then something happened. He pulled with too much force.
Or maybe she shoved him. Either way, the world toppled, and then they were slamming into the bow of the pirate ship.
A glass crocodile shattered on the floor. The white sail pitched to the ground, taking out half a tray of canapés. Several guests screamed, pedaling backward as shards of glass scattered like diamonds.
A hush fell. Cameras clicked.
Dominic exhaled. He was splayed against the bar, Juliette half cradled against his chest. Her hair was falling out of its pins, and she wore the expression of a cat that had been dropped unexpectedly in bathwater, which would have been funny if he wasn’t terribly certain they’d be splashed across every international tabloid by tomorrow morning.
A cane clicked across the wooden floor.
Ranya observed the broken pirate ship. Two men—presumably sponsors—stood behind her. When she looked at them, her expression was unreadable.
“With me. Now.”